Duath i-Achas Eriol
by Eirian1
Summary: After many years of peace under the rule of the High King Elessar, Middle Earth is once again at war with a new Shadow rising out of the east. The elves have returned in defense of the lands they once cared for, and never more so than now has the power of love and light been tested. (3rd/4th Age book/movie mingle). WARNING: Ch1 may be triggering for some. contains non-con scene.
1. Three Long Years

Author's notes and disclaimer: I do not own _The Lord of the Ring, _or Middle Earth, and its associated characters. The Tolkien Estate does, for which, for the most part, they have my utmost respect. No copyright infringement is intended in writing this story.

If I might actually quote the 'Ada' of Middle Earth himself in my defence, and in defence of all fan fiction - though he was speaking of the creation of a body of legend he had in mind to write at the time - "The cycles should be linked to a majestic whole, and yet leave scope for **other minds and hands**, wielding pain and music and drama." (Letter to Milton Waldman, 1951, as quoted in _The Silmarillion_ [emphasis mine].) Let's face it - what are the many epic tales set in Middle Earth if they are not a 'collected body of legend'?

In addition, this work draws heavily upon the dramatization of _The Lord of the Rings_ as presented in the epic trilogy, brought to life by Peter Jackson and co. at New Line Cinema. I do not own any of their reference material either. My deepest respect also goes to the talented actors that brought to life the characters we saw in _Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and Return of the King._ My portrayal of the characters here is based quite heavily on my perception of the work of Viggo Mortensen, Liv Tyler, Marton Csokas, Hugo Weaving, Cate Blanchett, Sir Ian McKellen and Orlando Bloom. Without these people and those that appeared alongside them, there would have been no _LOTR Trilogy_ as we know it today.

With the exception of personal interpretation and expansions, extracts from existing portions of the text, (be that written or visual), remain the copyright of the story and screenplay writers: J. R. R. Tolkien, Fran Walsh, Phillipa Boyens, Peter Jackson, and David Salo and his team.

Other assorted original characters (i.e. those that don't really appear in the book and film) are my own creation, and they, along with the original material presented here are © Eirian Phillips 2013.

Story is rated for mature readers, according to whatever rating system is adopted these days for Fan Fiction. It changes on a site by site basis and was so much easier before the MPAA got precious about their own ratings system. Let's just say there's likely to be SLV and leave it at that.

A brief word on the use of the Elvish languages in the text: I have no doubt massacred it. I am not a scholar, and I'm no David Salo.I do, and have done, the best with what resources, my brain included, are available online and printed.

A brief word on adherence to canon in the text: forget it. If you are looking for a story that sticks to accepted canon, please look elsewhere.

Characters and events are purely fictitious, and any similarity to anyone living, fading into Shadow, faded into Shadow, dead, insane or in any alternate universe or timeline is entirely coincidental.

**Duath i-Achas Eriol**

Chapter One

**Three Long Years**

_**It**__ began with a skirmish._

_After seven bright years of peace and joy, as the united kingdoms of Arnor in the north and Gondor in the south were made right under the benevolent rule of the High King Elessar of the House Telcontar, the first hint of trouble came and passed with all the notice of a brief summer squall._

_Three years have passed since then. Three years since Tussaluin fell and the first of the refugees reached Edoras and the Rohirim messenger arrived at Imladris. Three long and bitter years since skirmish became battle; became war as the growing host of an unnamed hoard out of the east swept westward across the hills and plains, the woodlands and mountains of Middle Earth to be met by the Men of the West, and those of the Eldar, my people, returning in aid of those of us that had never left._

_Three hard, cold years of grief since my beloved heart's light had disappeared; lost to me in the dark of a night long past, when Rivendell was all but under siege, and the lands around Hithaeglir had run to darkness._

"**It** is utter madness!" Elrohir challenged, frustration turning his usually calm, quiet voice brittle with discord. "If we take our forces east toward the Great Greenwood, we will have the enemy both to the northeast and to the south, and we cannot hope for support from the Galadhrim, for they fight in their own defence along the eastern bank of the Anduin."

Elladan nodded conceding the point, though he continued to press his position. "But it yet serves no purpose for us to head to the west in defence of the Great East Road. The Rangers of Eriador are massing in the Lone Lands and will hold the road against incursion from those very enemy forces in the north should their path turn toward the Shire."

"They will hold them _here_, yes," Elrohir said and leaning on the table that stood between he and his twin, pointed to spot where the River Mitheithil intersected the road. "But should the hoard sweep south and west, what then of the settlements within the Rhudauar - what of _them_?"

His brother leaned upon the map from the other side, his voice urgent, earnest; serious. "All the more reason for us to ride out, draw them to the east and into the Great Greenwood to trap them between our forces and those of our woodland cousins."

"We cannot count upon Thranduil to have sent his people westward if there comes danger on his eastern flank from-"

"We _can_ count upon Legolas," Elladan interrupted him, reaching out to grip his hand where it still rested on the map. "He _knows_ us, Elrohir; knows how we would think."

Elrohir hung his head, breathing out a long slow sigh. Of all the arguments that Elladan could have made, this was one he could not counter. Yet frustrated, almost fearful tears that he could not explain gathered behind his eyes. "Damn it, Elladan-!"

A soft sound, the clearing of a deep voice from the one who sat at the head of the table cut off the remaining protest, and lifting his head, Elrohir turned, almost in unison with his brother, to face their father, as Elrond lowered his hand from where it curled pensively against his lower lip, and uncrossed his arms.

"The merits, or otherwise of each of your points," he said slowly, "bear neither question nor relevance, for they will not bring us within sight of what we seek."

"Father?" Elladan said.

"Ride east," Elrond said, and Elrohir's heart dipped low to burn in his gut. "Take the Old Forest Road to the heart of the Greenwood, then north to Emyn-nu-Fuil. There are answers within those mountains that have been buried for far too long, and if your journey should draw the enemy forces to ruin against the sharp wedge of Thranduil's steel, then so be it."

He rose to his feet, a sure sign to Elrohir that the decision was made for them - that they had been dismissed and set upon their course, a thought reflected as his brother dipped his head into a bow of acquiescence.

"My Lord," Elladan said.

"Father." Elrohir also dipped his head, turning to follow his brother from the chamber. As he approached the door, his father's voice reached him.

"Elrohir," the tone in Elrond's voice halted both his steps, and his breath, one hand tightening slowly upon the handle of the door. He did not turn, but by his very stillness showed his attention as his father continued, "How much longer will you hold to what is lost; reach for what cannot be held; listen for that which cannot be heard?"

The soft spoken words gathered all the long years of anguish; every unshed tear, each lonely night and empty day; all his fear and loss and longing as if through a lens to a single point of anger that burned as bright as any star, that his father - who knew keenly the weight of such desolate separation - could even dare to think such a question, let alone to ask it aloud.

Whirling he strode back across the room, tugging at the pin fastened at his breast until it came free of his tunic, feeling the shape of the radiating stones in the jewel against his palm as he all but slammed his fist against the table and released the token that was both the symbol of his marriage, and held the magic of that sacred rite within the perfect cut of the gems that were set within the gold filigree of whorl and leaf.

As he lifted his hand away, the fae light flashed within the jewels - faint, but with a life that was not a mere reflection of the candlelight.

"Until the day that I can neither feel nor can see one flicker of her soul within our binding jewel, then and _only_ then will my hope fade," he growled, his earnest tone matching the agony that welled inside of him to think that such a day might yet come. "And I with it."

_**I**__ do not often find myself at odds with my father, even as a much younger elf than my near on three millennia he and I rarely exchanged words of strife. On that occasion though, his question seemed cruel; a terrible thing to ask: when would I give up on my love?_

_A part of me understood, perhaps, that he was only trying to protect me; to keep me from carrying in my heart the same melancholy he had lived under for almost the whole of my adult life. Perhaps he feared that I too would be left to feel as impotent as he had once - and only once - expressed to me that he had felt after what had happened to my mother. Though he healed her physical hurts with ease, he was unable to return the joy of life to her heart, and ultimately, she had left Middle Earth - and him - to return to the Undying Lands of our people._

_His own sorrow could only have strengthened now that he had once again shared those few short years of peace in Mother's arms, only to be faced with the choice to return and help to turn a tide of war that swept across the lands of Middle Earth, which also held his love. Was he then trying to save me such a choice?_

_It was impossible of course and he knew it as well as I, for my concept of love - my people's belief of it - is as undying as the lands of Valinor, and besides... would I not have been less worthy as his son had I been able to give him any other answer than the one I gave?_

**F**addha's steps faltered as she heard the lord's voice echo through the great hall and the burst of laughter that followed his words. She had not heard what he said, but was sure it wasn't complementary… about anything. Hethuc rarely was; a typical warrior-turned-lord in these times, he was coarse, vulgar and demanding - sometimes altogether disgusting - yet she served him. She had so lost herself to the demands he made that she barely knew who she was any more, what had brought her there in the first place, or why she remained.

"Here she is, almost as if summoned," he mocked as she came to stand before him, fearful in spite of the anger that had driven her steps. "My little hostage!"

She ignored the words, though they bit hard at the already gaping wound in her heart. It was a lie. A hostage could only _be_ a hostage if some agreement or demand had been made and to her knowledge, aside from her own acquiescence, none had.

"You turned aside the wounded today," she accused, her voice still softly accented in spite of many years away from her home.

"A lord can only do so much," he countered, but she leaned forward, slammed her soft hand against the table top.

"Lau!" she said, in her aggravation slipping from the Common tongue. "You promised there would always be a place beneath your roof for those in need. No matter what; no matter the co-"

She did not see the back of his hand coming until it connected with her face, and would have fallen from the force of the blow had he not caught the front of her dress in his fist and all but dragged her across the table top.

"You'll excuse me, I hope, my lords," he said to the others, "but it seems my young friend here has forgotten her manners and needs to be reminded."

The moment the words left his mouth, and his steps turned toward the short stair that led up to the second storey of the building around the great hall, Faddha began to fight; a desperate struggle of arms and fists and nails - in vain. He simply ignored her assay for freedom and virtually tucked her under his arm, carried her up the staircase, and only threw her down once he had slammed the door to the nearest chamber shut behind them.

The blunt force of the fall went through her bones like a hammer blow, and she tried to shake off the stunning pain and drag herself further from him as he turned from bolting the door, but in spite of his bulk he was on her again too soon for her to find her feet, or a place of safety. First he pinned her with a boot against the flare of her skirt, and then he straddled her, driving what breath she had from her lungs.

"_I_ decide the use of what resources we have left in this homestead," he growled as she fought for breath. "And I've indulged you long enough. I have a different use for you now."

His words only focussed her fear and hate, and with it the clarity of her sight, if not her reason. She made a frantic grab for the hilt of the knife at his belt. She had it clear of its sheath before his fist closed around her wrist and new percussive pain numbed her fingers as he slammed her hand into the floor. The knife clattered away, and with it all hope, as he grabbed the cloth of her bodice and lifted her from beneath him, barely to her feet, pushing her backward toward the bed.

"Don't." She clawed at his wrist, but he still wore his bracers - had barely come in from the road after all - and her nails left little mark against the leather there. "Hethuc stop! I forgot myself. Forgi-"

"Twice," he spat, "in one day!"

Her balance failed as the back of her knees connected with the bed, and he leaned down only enough to add to the momentum, lifting her feet from under her. She fell backwards, and tried to scramble away, or to roll to the side, but he was on her… pinning her… pushing up her skirts and her thighs. Her breath came thick and fast in panic. She couldn't move; her arms were trapped between them and she couldn't free herself, his bulk was too great.

"Avo," she gasped. "Don't… don't!"

She snatched breath after breath, after breath to no effect, faster and faster, voiced in fear and everything she was tensed until the moment came. Like a fist driven deep into her belly; a radiating pain that stole all but the will to weep in loss. Like a candle snuffed out; a heart descending into darkness, ignorant of the pain, though she cried out from it; deaf to her own cries.

"My lord… lau… don't…ai!"

She broke down, sobbing, incoherent sounds against the grunting, snorting, panting heat that poured greater poison yet into her ears.

"They never told me where you came from." The murder of her soul came faster, harder, the agony too great as he finished, and moments later, still sucking breath against her neck he said, "But I'm not so ignorant of the lands around these mountains, or your words, to know the truth of you, like as not."

Another cry left her as _he_ did.

"Get yourself cleaned up, and back downstairs," he ordered, moving away. "My warband won't serve themselves."


	2. A Timely Warning

**Duath i-Achas Eriol**

Chapter 2

**A Timely Warning**

_**Imladris**__ - Rivendell in the Common tongue - a sanctuary of lore and of healing, and the one place in all the lands of Middle Earth that holds my heart a willing captive, more than any other place of beauty that I have seen in the world, and I have seen many, though not just because it is my home._

_ There is a peace in Rivendell, a quiet repose which subsumes the heart and soothes even some of the most troubledsouls. Whether it is the gentle music running in the sounds of the waters of the Bruinen, or the soft crackle from the hearth in the Hall of Fire; or perhaps the engaging hum of many minds lost in study, meditation or healing, Rivendell provides a mirrored glimpse, for all who walk its hallowed grounds, of life beyond the Sundering Sea. Perhaps it is the power of such Light that gives my home its otherworldly tranquillity._

_ That is not to say that the halls of my father have escaped entirely unscathed through the ages. That is not so - for even but two short years after its foundation in the Second Age, Imladris found itself under siege, and when I was a mere adolescent elf of a single scant millennium, again Rivendell all but fell along with Lindon. Though my father would say that Rivendell is no fortress to withstand such things, but rather exists as a place of healing and study, our home is uniquely placed and greatly, if not utterly, defensible should the need arise; and one such time may have come to pass during the War of the Ring, had we not received a timely warning from an ally, via a most unexpected, yet welcome source._

**The** ride had been hard and the trail down the side of the crag into the valley was a difficult one for even a seasoned rider. They passed along what soon, quite obviously, became a horse path, but when Farnhad leaned over to grasp her reins to lead Usila down as though she had never sat atop a horse before, fatigue faded in the rising fire of irritation and the answering flood of frustration.

Still, as they came around the bend in the mountain track, even that flew and her breath caught, stilling her heart. Never had she seen anything so beautiful.

"A sight to behold, Little Lamb, is it not?" Farnhad said, but even his voice could not disturb the communion between eye and soul.

The late afternoon sun prismed within distant falls of water from rocky promontories, higher than the buildings that nestled in the lea of the mountain's arms. The leafy trees, in countless gardens, whispered soft welcomes on an undetectable breeze and lights, innumerable as the stars that would soon grace the darkening sky, danced from within the shadier, more mysterious places among towering columns and colossal otherworldly statues, bound with leafy vines.

Yes, it was a sight to behold and her eyes filled with tears at the vision of it.

"But come," Farnhad went on when she did not answer and his tug upon her reins broke the revelation before her. "You're lord bid us see you women and the wounded here if ill came near our camp and that's what we've done, except that sitting here won't see us to the vale."

"I can manage," she said softly, trying to take the reins back from his hand. "I've been riding since a child."

"You're _still_ a child, in my eyes, my lamb, and you'll ride in as I say you ride in." Farnhad would not let go, and so she was condemned to follow like some leashed bitch, watching the back end of his horse, and the arse that sat upon it.

**"Every** day there are more of them. Our halls are full to bursting and Father works tirelessly and yet nothing seems to stem the tide. I do not know how much longer we can sustain."

Elrohir studied his sister's back as she leaned upon the balcony rail, looking out over the garden below; watched the way her hands gripped the smoothed wood carvings that graced the ornately wrought metalwork beneath. It was not only for their people that she worried.

"You fear for him," he said, moving out to join her in the fading warmth of the early spring afternoon, speaking not of their father, but of another. He stood beside her then, an arm around her, gripping her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze. "You know as well as I do, Arwen: he fights well, he has a good head on his shoulders-"

"It is not his head for which I fear," she interrupted softly, "but his heart. Before he left, he told me that he feels as if his path is hidden from him."

Elrohir sighed softly, a long slow breath leaving him as he thought on all he knew of his sisters love for Aragorn, and all that it would mean; on all that Aragorn carried within him and the destiny that the heir of Isildur had no choice but to embrace if there were to be an end to the Shadow ravaging Middle Earth. He thought, too, on the two of them together, and for that he smiled, though it were a sad, soft smile he gave before he turned and gently kissed his sister's temple.

"Yet still he left," he murmured softly against the top of her head. "Whatever counsel you gave to him must have given him the strength he needed."

"I bid him trust," she told him, turning enough in his embrace that she could look up at him as she finished, "in _us, _but with all this… Father will order us Home, Elrohir, you _know_ he will, and even Aragorn-"

"Arwen," Elrohir called her name softly, cutting off her rising panic, and when she calmed in his embrace, he continued softly, "The Choice was given to each of us of our line. Father can no more deny you your heart than he can his own. Your decision must _be_ your own, little sister, and both Elladan and I will be here for you." He trailed off for a moment, looking away, looking out up into the rocky crags surrounding the valley as a touch of some fateful spirit trailed an unseen finger over his spine. "For a time at least."

"Elrohir?"

He frowned then, not at her querying his thought, but at the flash of light upon metal that reached his eye from the path down into Rivendell. He eased her aside, and moved past her to the end of the terrace, peering up to try and better see.

Arwen came to his side, their conversation abandoned, as she asked, "What is it?"

"There are riders," he said as he saw again the flash for which he was waiting. "Riders on the approach to Rivendell. Go quickly to tell our father - I go to muster the Horseguard."

**Her** horse almost reared as Farnhad pulled so hard against the reins to bring him to a stop that alarm flooded the poor gelding. It took all of Usila's skill not to pitch from the distressed horse, and she cursed softly. Then she pulled up her shawl as a veil, like the other healers in the knot of men, and lowered her face, as the armoured Elvish horsemen met their descent as a physical barrier against a further progress.

"Hold," a soft, accented voice commanded in the Common tongue. "You may go no further."

"My lord, have mercy." She could not identify the voice that spoke, craving the assistance of the Elves, but she saw Farnhad stiffen at her side and once more tried, unsuccessfully, to tug her reins free of his grasp as the man from among the warband continued his entreaty. "We have women and wounded among our number. We seek only aid and sanctuary."

"For your women and your wounded?" The Elf spoke again and nudged his horse forward, one hand on his reins the other, Usila noted, on the hilt of his still sheathed blade. He eased his mount between the horses in the front line of the company, toward the man that had spoken, unconcerned to be within the midst of those that could have been potential enemies, as if supremely confident in his ability to avoid entrapment. "What of the others?"

"A moment only to catch our breath," Farnhad said, and Usila cringed at the underlying note of contempt that coloured his voice.

The Elf turned toward them. As he did, Usila felt his eyes slide over her as an almost physical touch and somehow she knew he had not missed the way that Farnhad held her reins. For a moment she raised her head and took in the sight of the Elf that now rode through the ranks of the men toward where Farnhad sat practically bristling with resentment. His dark, neatly braided hair fell below his shoulders and upon his brow he wore a circlet of shining silver, but his eyes - dear god, his eyes - the deepest blue-grey that she had ever seen, like storm clouds at midnight filled with a firmament of stars. His elven-fair face was unyielding as he approached.

"And then?" he asked.

"Then we'll turn around and be out of your hair," Farnhad answered and though he tried to move his horse sideways, toward her own, the Elf's horse prevented it as he came between them. Farnhad also had no choice but to release her reins, or become tangled and the long fingered hand of the Elven horseman passed them back to her.

"Beriathan le," he said, his voice barely above a whisper to her, and though she did not understand his words, his actions had made his meaning obvious and keeping his place as he turned his horse - forcing Farnhad wide and dangerously close to the edge of the pathway - he spoke more clearly, "Very well; sanctuary for the women and the wounded - and a moment's peace to catch your breath against your travails. Leithion, togo hyn na i mâr o i adar nín."

**The** journey down into the courtyard was tense and made mostly in silence, as Elrohir kept himself between the woman and man whose bitterness had been clear in every syllable he'd spoken. Then his duties as a son of the household drew him away and grooms, and his Horseguard, had assumed the roles of caretakers and guides while he fulfilled those responsibilities.

Something nagged at him though; some vague familiarity tugging at the corner of his mind. Something he had seen on his travels, perhaps.

He descended the steps quickly, as one that knew their every groove in their worn surface and frowned as he thought on Rivendell's new guests. If they were a people he had encountered on his travels, then he might find some trigger for his memory in what he had seen. Yet they carried no device, nor had any stamped upon the leatherwork of their saddles, or the scant armour they possessed. He saw no recognition in the fashioning of their blade work, or on their scabbards, in fact nothing he had seen as he rode in with them provided him with the least hint of a clue as he thought on it.

He frowned still further as he reached the long hallway, where the men sat, or milled around and the wounded were already receiving the first caring touches of the healers, and where the women hovered, as if nervous, in small groups around the fireplaces along the hall. Six women there were among thirty or so men - many of whom would not remain - but his eyes could not locate the one he sought: the only one whose horse was being led. He shook his head. That was not the right word. The way she sat upon the horse discounted an inability to ride well enough to make the descent, which _could_ have explained the man's intentions in leading her mount. No, it was another cause, and the thought sat as an uneasy mantle in his mind.

"Leithion," he approached his steward, "Where are the young noble and her guard?"

"Still in the courtyard with the horses, my lord Elrohir," Leithion said. "She would not leave her mount to our groomsmen."

Elrohir smiled in spite of his concerns and placed a hand onto Leithion's shoulder. "How much longer before we find places for our guests?" he asked, nodding around the hall.

"It may be some time, my lord," Leithion said. "Lindir is uncertain of your father's intentions in this matter."

"Do what you can," Elrohir said, knowing he could not hurry his father's decision and turned his attention toward the courtyard, and the young woman on whom his concerns were fixed.

For a moment, as he reached the enclosure, he could catch no sight of her and his concern increased, until he looked among the horses and spotted the small figure bent over with one of her horse's hooves resting on her skirts. The slender fingers of her small hands were working at something nearby to the shoe, but her long hair obscured the exact nature of the problem.

"Is he hurt, my lady?" he asked softly, as he approached and though she started slightly, and took a half step back, she did not cease the care of her mount. She looked up at him, shaking her head just a little.

"I don't think so," she said, "Just a stone, but-"

"May I?" he nodded to the hoof she held and she stepped back to allow him closer. The horse shifted beside them, uncertain.

"Thala, mellon nín," he murmured softly, stroking the chestnut gelding's neck and then over his shoulder and down his leg, to pick up the hoof once more.

"Salmar," she said.

He drew a short blade from a sheath at his side and began to carefully ease the stone from between shoe and hoof where it was lodged.

"Hmm?" he asked, glancing up at her.

"His name."

"That's an old name for a young horse," he said, still trying to understand the niggling feeling of recognition. "Did you name him?"

She shook her head, then nuzzled slowly at the horse's cheek with her own and the memory broke over him like a wave. He _had_ seen her - many times - as he and Elladan spent time in the company of Aston, a household loyal to the Dúnedain through the ages, and a firm family friend, though he was almost certain they had never spoken.

"I've seen you before," he said offhand, for she seemed almost as skittish as the horse for no apparent reason. "You and your people hail from Creaton-over-Beorn, in the shadow of Mirkwood."

"Yes, my lord," she said softly, echoing the thought of a moment earlier as she added, "but I do not think that we have ever spoken."

"I did not think so," he said with a smile, meaning to tell her he was sure he would remember such a thing, but the stone he had been working at finally came free. "And there we have it."

He held up the stone to her and she took it from him with a whisper of a touch.

"_Is_ he all right?" she asked.

"I will have our grooms make certain he will not need a new shoe, but-"

"I could not ask you-"

"You did not." He straightened then and laid a hand onto her shoulder to still her protest. "Besides, it is little trouble to-"

He was interrupted as the menfolk began to come from the building into the courtyard and he saw that she was watching them closely. He could not decide if it were anger or fear he saw in her eyes, or some comingling of the both.

For a while he turned to watch as the men gathered themselves; to work out what it was that so troubled her: the thought of being left behind or something else; something more sinister.

His question was answered, at least in part, when he felt her move to all but conceal herself behind him as the man from among her people that had been holding the reins of her horse, turned their way as if searching, seeking and he did not like the look he saw within that one's eyes.

The expression, however, and the way the man moved as he mounted his horse and gathered the others about him, sparked further memory and suddenly all of the pieces fell into place.

"You are Lord Aston's ward," he said without turning, still watching the man as he began to lead the others up along the pathway out of Rivendell. "How are you called, my Lady?"

She moved to stand beside him only when the warband had rounded the bend and passed out of sight.

"I'm told that my mother named me for the everlasting flower that once grew in abundance beneath the canopy of the Great Greenwood." She flushed slightly and shook her head with a breath that could have been an ironic chuckle, for Elrohir knew that no such flower existed now that Shadow had overrun Mirkwood. "My Lord Aston's people call me Usila."

"Lady Usila," Elrohir inclined his head in recognition of her words, though everything in him screamed to use instead the name that had resonated in his mind when she had explained her naming to him. As a distraction to the unsettling thought he gestured in the direction the others had ridden, up along the path, with a nod of his head and said, "I remember Aston said that you are promised to his Second."

The colour drained from her face and her eyes darkened at his words.

"Not any more," she said, and the vitriol he heard in her voice surprised him enough that he turned to face her. As he did she reached up to grasp his sleeve adding urgently, "My Lord Elrohir, I _must_ speak with your father."

For long moments, as he looked down at her, he searched the rich leafy hue of her eyes, seeking the truth of her; seeking to understand the situation. Then he nodded and for the second time that day, placed hand to her slender shoulder.

"Come with me," he said with a nod.

_**Only**__ months before that moment, my father had told Mithrandir that there was no strength left in the world of Men and it was moments like the one to come that almost brought me to accord with his thoughts. Honour and loyalty to one's line, one's family, one's people is almost a given in an Elf, so, it is hard for me to understand how a man can so completely turn his back upon all that is good and right to embrace shadow - whether that be from an external force such as that of the Deceiver, or merely some doubt within one's own heart._

_ That day, I witnessed the fall of one of the great Pillars of the North, and I grieved._

_ Aston was as a kinsman to me._

_Ever, as my brother and I wandered in the wilds among the Rangers, or merely in company with one another, there was space at Aston's hearth; always a kind word, a good meal in pleasant company and more important in the growing troubles of the time, news of the movement of forces from the East and advisements for us to pass to those of our allies that fought in protection of Middle Earth. Even when we did not visit personally for such news, riders regularly passed communications back and forth between Rivendell and Creaton._

_ Like even the greatest of trees, it was the rot that took hold from the inside; it was from his most trusted source that his death came and the sadness of _that_ was that his Second did not even try to conceal his hand in the murder of his lord. Or, perhaps, the fact that he left his blade embedded in Aston's throat was as a personal message; a warning to me. Who else among those that would have found the body would recognise the carvings on the hilt, when all of his liegemen lay dead around him?_

_ We came too late to save Aston; to save the people of Creaton-over-Beorn in the shadow of Mirkwood, but even in death Aston's loyalty to us, in warning Rivendell of immanent attack, and to all of Middle Earth in sending such a precious Light to us for safekeeping, remained unwavering._

_ Hiro hon hîdh ab 'wanath._

**"Elrohir?"**

Elrond stood as Elrohir ushered her into his study, courteous and yet the small, unguarded moment of a frown Usila saw pass across his face told her that he was not greatly pleased at having been interrupted.

"Lady Usila of Creaton, Aston's ward," Elrohir said, and she watched as Elrond's frown of consternation became surprise and then concern as his son finished, "She insisted she must speak with you."

Elrond gestured toward the couch before his fireplace and with nod of dismissal to Elrohir, said, "Lady Usila, I had no idea that you were among those to whom we have given sanctuary. Allow me to provide refreshments."

He moved toward a table at the side of the study after receiving Elrohir's respectful nod and for a moment she watched him, though she reached out a hand to forestall Elrohir's departure.

"There is no need, my Lord Elrond," she said softly, and then to the younger Elf - though she knew it was not politic to countermand the elder's command - said, "Stay."

She saw the frown on both of the Elves faces and tried very hard not to give in to worry, or to feel overawed by standing in the presence of Elrond of Rivendell. She had heard Aston speak of him so often, and in such respectful and hushed tones, that he had almost become to her as one of the great figures in the old stories. To be standing there in front of him, in conversation with him - and conversation of a most urgent and desperate nature - was almost more than she could stand, but Aston had charged her with this task and for all their sakes she would obey, no matter what _she_ might feel.

"Speak then, Lady of Creaton," Elrond urged and she saw him exchange a look with his son, one that she could not decipher for all that she tried. "What is it that your Lord Guardian would have us know?"

"He bid me bring you a letter, Lord Elrond," she said softly and from the small pouch she wore at her waist she took a small wrought metal scroll case, which she moved to hand to the Elf, retreating again to wait while he shook out the paper and read the words of the short message that she knew was written in the Elvish tongue. The frown upon Elrond's face deepened and she chose that moment to add, "And also bid me to crave of you permanent sanctuary among your household. For if I had cause to give the letter to you then it was because he could no longer shelter me as his ward."

"My Lady," Elrond said, coming across the space between them to where she stood, still at Elrohir's side. He handed the letter to his son. "Your guardian's letter speaks of one that would… turn against him and means to lead the Easterlings here, to Rivendell."

She felt Elrohir's eyes on her, and looked down, knowing that he was putting the pieces together, and quickly, too quickly.

"I know not the content of the letter, my Lord," she said, "Only the instructions given to me by Aston before I left with the women to heal among the warband. That if Farnhad - his second - were to bring me here, then it would mean him false and I was released from all promises save the one I gave to Aston: that I would give you the letter, and speak his requests to you with my own breath and so, I ask you again, Lord Elrond, for sanctuary - here - among your household."

"Tell me, exactly, the sequence of events that led Lord Aston's second to bring you here," Elrond asked, gesturing once again toward the couch before the fire and this time all but drawing her that way with the barest touch of his hand at her back. Just as when Elrohir had laid his hand upon her shoulder, she felt as if the pricking of hot needles had move down over the whole of her spine. She tried not to move aside from the touch, as unsettling as it was, and followed Elrond to sit and allowed him to serve her the refreshments he had offered; a cut glass of deep amber liquid, which he brought to her before settling at the other end of the couch, and half turned to face her. Elrohir, she noted, remained standing, though he handed the letter back to his father.

"Beginning when, my Lord?" she asked as they came to stillness.

"Only you can answer that," he said. "What event do you believe precipitated Aston's decisions to send you south with his army?"

"I did not say he sent us south," she said.

"Nonetheless," Elrond countered with the hint of a smile upon his face, "that is where his bondsmen are, while Aston himself travelled north and west toward Thranduil's realm." He leaned toward her then and said, "My Lady, your guardian sent you to me for a reason. Trust me when I tell you that there is little happens within Rhovanion that does not reach our ears. Now, why would Aston send you out of his stronghold and into danger?"

"He did not," she said. "He sent me south to join the other healers within the camp of his warband that were protecting the eastern bank of the Anduin nearby to the Gladden Field - between there anyway and the south west edge of Mirkwood."

"When, and why?" Elrond asked. His tone was clipped.

"He had a visitor," she answered, and frowned softly as she remembered the events of the evening before Aston had sent her to the warband. "He was a man I had not seen before, but by his look I think he must have been one of the Rangers. He would not allow me to serve; had Aston send me away and it was only afterward that my lord sent for me again."

"And what did he say?"

"He said that on the morrow I would ride with his brother Marton to join the healers at the camp. Then he gave me the letter and said that I must keep it always about my person, for he feared that the road would turn ill, and that Farnhad might bring me here," she said and shrugged a little. "The rest I have already told you."

"And Farnhad brought you here because?"

"The men had taken prisoners and in the night, barely an hour before Farnhad returned from some mission of his own, one of the enemies escaped his bonds and could not be found. When Farnhad returned, he said that he could no longer risk that we women, nor the wounded, remain at camp, so we rode here, as my lord Aston had feared we would."

"Bado, Elrohir," Elrond said in soft command, "Govado i-rhugar, o ennas noro forven na Creaton."

Elrohir nodded to his father, then after politely excusing himself with a quiet, "My Lady," turned and left the study, leaving her watching as Elrond steepled his fingers as if deep in thought. She took a moment to sip the sweet nectar from the glass she had been nursing, trying not to seem the impetuous, impatient child she felt in the presence of the Elven Lord.

Just when she though no more would be said, Elrond spoke.

"As to Aston's request: I fear, my Lady, that I must decline," he said. "These are troubled times, and as your guardian should have been all too aware, my people are leaving these shores. In fact, in possession of this knowledge it frankly surprises me that-"

As he began to speak in denial of her appeal, Usila reached once more within her pouch to take out the small, silk wrapped jewel: nine points upon the star shaped, flawless cut of the shimmering emerald, set within three overlapping leaves of mithril.

"Aston was afraid that this would be your answer, and so instructed me to give this to you." She unwrapped the pendant and handed it to him, keeping her eyes from meeting his, but _feeling_ the deep, shocked scowl that she knew had settled on his face. "And to speak these words: Nassë témarya i-telda."

A/N: I debated, oh lord how I debated whether to provide translations for the Elvish used in certain scenes, since - if I'm using Elvish in the text, it is because there is mixed company and both languages are being spoken, and that the viewpoint character for the scene perhaps does not understand Sindarin, (as in the scene where Usila encounter Elrohir for the first time). Still, I do appreciate that readers want to know so, here are the intended translations, and please see notes in chapter 1 on the use of languages in the story.

Beriathan le - I will protect you.

Leithion, togo hyn na i mâr o i adar nín. - Leithion, lead them to my father's house.

Thala, mellon nín - Steady, my friend.

Hiro hon hîdh ab 'wanath - May he find peace in death.

Bado, Elrohir - Go, Elrohir.

Govado i-rhugar, o ennas noro forven na Creaton - Meet this threat, then ride north to Creaton.


	3. Solace To the Suffering

**Duath i-Achas Eriol**

Chapter 3

**Solace To the Suffering**

_**To**__ put things into perspective, the journey that my father had commanded Elladan and I to make was one of many days in the best of circumstances and the gathering war did not constitute such. So, it took us a little more than a week of hard won, battle weary progress to reach the Old Ford and once there, what we encountered proved my father's foresight more than accurate._

_ Thranduil's forces were massed on the eastern side of the ford, there under the command of an old friend, and very welcome sight after the constant push of our battle to win north-easterly progress. The gold and white-green gleam of their armour was almost dazzling against the dirty brown wall of leather that had been our constant sight as we fought our own battles, and my heart lifted - at least a little - in that._

_ I remember also, the smile of almost pure relief that came to grace Elladan's expression as we set eyes upon them. It is not often that he smiles, being by far the closest in temperament to our father, but when he does it is a light that can lift even the most despairing of hearts. That, he inherited from our mother._

_ The Greenwood's army was a great curving swath that cut across the line of the Old Forest Road, preventing the ingress of the enemy along the easiest route into the Wood of Green Leaves. It forced them further south along the bank of the Anduin; to retreat north once more or, for the more foolhardy among them, to try westward across the ford and throw themselves upon the anvil of the Horseguard from Rivendell._

_Between the two of us, Greenwood and Rivendell would hold the north… for a time at least._

**Dismounting**, Elrohir handed the reins of his horse to the nearby groom, The enemy was repelled for the day, retreating back into the wilds and hills - northward, whence they'd come. Light had becoming too low for human eyes to see clearly. Elves, he had to admit, had the advantage in that respect.

He turned his head to smile as he felt the hand clasp his shoulder, and fell into step with Elladan, the two of them approaching the far bank of the ford, where their ally commander awaited them, and even at such a distance they could see he wore a smile.

"Legolas Thranduilion," Elladan said formally as they came to a halt in front of the other Elf.

"The Brothers Peredhil," Legolas responded, equally as formally, but Elrohir could tell that like he, Legolas could barely restrain himself. "Your arrival is timely and most welcome."

"And with our father's high regard," Elrohir said, raising an eyebrow in place of a shrug of amusement at the expression, which showed a complete lack of surprise, on Legolas' face.

"Indeed," the prince said, "then doubly welcome."

He laughed then, Legolas; the sound a welcome, almost musical note to banish the lingering discord of battle, and before Elrohir could move, fairly launched himself to wrap a tight hug around him. After a moment, with a chuckle of his own, Elrohir reciprocated the warm gesture.

"Elrohir," Legolas greeted him again, more personally this time, and then reached out to catch his brother around the shoulders and draw him closer too. "And Elladan. It has been too long, my friends."

Even Elladan relaxed then, as Legolas released them both, and shook his head, still smiling at the two of them.

"I might have known your father would have the foresight to send you east with the Horseguard," Legolas said, "But come, we can have better, more comfortable conversation in my command pavilion."

"Your father must have come to trust you greatly since the War of the Ring," Elladan offered, as the three of them started toward the fluttering silk of Legolas' tent, but Legolas laughed again.

"My royal father simply wanted me out of his hair," he said.

The words were good humoured enough, but it did not take an empath like Elrohir to feel the underlying pang of hurt that Legolas had tried to keep from the tone of his words. Following behind his brother, who walked at the prince's side, Elrohir sighed softly. He knew that Thranduil could give the appearance of being a lofty and remote king, and that the loss of his beloved wife had hardened him still further, but Elrohir could not shake the sudden feeling that, before this new conflict escalated much further, Thranduil and Legolas must find a way to greater accord and peace between them. He shivered slightly as the thought left him, and hurried a step or two, to catch up.

"…each day is the same," Legolas was saying, "though their numbers are getting less, so either we are prevailing, or these men are just a diversion, and the main force has found another way around."

Elladan shook his head as all three of them ducked through the silken entrance of the tent and Legolas bid them to have a seat. "The latest information from our scouts speaks otherwise," he said.

Simply spoken words - and also the truth - and yet they cut Elrohir deep for the loss they signified. For so many years, such information had come to Rivendell from a source other than their own scouts, one dear to his family - dearer yet to him.

Elrohir felt his brother's eyes then, an apologetic caress that passed over the careworn expression he knew had once more found its way to his face.

"There is still no word then?" Legolas asked softly, "No trace?"

He sat up a little and shook his head. "And now our lord father sends us to Emyn-nu-Fuil to seek answers there," he said.

"Answers?" Legolas handed each of them cups of sweet wine to drink and took his own seat, "to Sillothuiell's disappearance?"

"To this new Shadow that rises," Elladan corrected the prince, and reached over to place a hand across Elrohir's forearm.

"We would have your permission to enter the Wood of Greenleaves, that we may follow our father's command," Elrohir said, his eyes closed, the words a mere sigh upon his breath as he sought to banish the pain that had flared once more in his heart at hearing her name and state so openly spoken.

"Of course you may have it, my friends," Legolas said. "You need not even ask, but since you are here, might I propose a course of action that will serve all of us well, I think."

"You wish for us to stay," Elrohir guessed, "and fight beside you for a time."

"Help me to drive these servants of Shadow back to the far north, whence they came, then I shall come _with_ you to the Mountains of Mirkwood, and we shall discover together what it is that drives them," Legolas said.

Elrohir exchanged a brief glance with his brother, though in truth neither twin needed to see the other's face to know that they were in accord. They nodded as one.

"You have our swords, my prince," Elladan answered.

**Faddha** hesitated as she approached the doorway into the communal hall shared by the women of the stronghold, one hand against the wall to steady herself, the other pressed across her aching lower belly and abused sex, almost certain that this time he had left her bleeding, but this was not the cause of her hesitation.

She felt defeated; utterly, with the barest shred of hope remaining in her heart, and therein lay the source of her reluctance to enter the women's hall. In the days since Hethuc had first taken her by force, being around the women had become increasingly difficult, even though she had only and ever treated them with kindness and concern. Their silence, riddled with suspicion, and their bitter, harsh words wounded her almost more than their overlord's progressively more violent assaults.

"Again?"

Faddha jumped as the quiet voice sounded almost behind her, and then winced as an arm slipped around her waist for support and pressed on the bruises that coloured Faddha's back. She turned her head to see Elwed, one of the kitchen maids, looking up at her with deep concern on her face.

"I'm all right," she lied.

"And I am queen of Gondor," Elwed snorted. "Come on inside, let's get your face seen to if nothing else."

Absently, Faddha touched her fingers to her lip, only then registering the pain and the blood on her fingertips as she pulled her hand away. She looked at it as though it were something strange and unknown; something she had never seen.

"He must have…" She trailed off, allowing Elwed to begin to lead her closer to the women's hall.

"Belted you right hard across the face," Elwed finished her sentence as they came into the hall. "Where was it this time?"

"The stables," Faddha said. "They have just returned from the road."

"Lord wanted a warm welcome home." One of the women looked up from her sewing and all but spat the accusatory words her way.

"Instead he got _her_ frosty nethers to bed his cock in," another said, drawing mumbling from the gathered women of the household. "Small wonder he took it out on her face."

Derision began to seep from every corner of the room, and like scaling knives on fresh fish began to strip away the numbness that insulated her from the pain. Faddha's mouth opened, her throat constricting on the sob gathering there as if to hold it in, to deny it to the world that would drag it from her; her weakness… her loss.

"Her defiance makes it worse for all of us," another said.

"Go to the cot in back," Elwed's voice was a feather against the daggers her so-called sisters chose to thrust into her already tattered heart; in expression of their own fear, she knew, though it did not make it hurt any the less. "I'll bring through water, and some fresh clothes and linens."

Elwed gave her a light push toward the small room at the rear of the hall where there was a low bed kept separate for any woman ailing, or a-childbed. Faddha's steps were slow, heavy as earth in winter and stumbling as though she'd taken too much ale.

"That woman has done more for you and yours that you will ever know," Elwed's voice cut through the bitterness that hung in the air like a fog. "You, Mara, where would your leg be without her healing touch? And you Rhondis - what about the man you call husband that came back from the hills with an arrow in his back, and not only lived, but walked nightly to your bed the following spring."

"Elwed, don't," Faddha said softly, turning around to try and stop the young woman from speaking out in defence of her, but Elwed wouldn't be quieted, not even as she began to move to gather the things she'd said she would bring for Faddha's comfort.

"And Hilaeth, that babe you suckle would have died of fever not two weeks past, had it not been for her knowing what herbs to give the both of you in aid," Elwed went on, pouring hot water from the pan in the fireplace into a wooden bowl.

Faddha felt her face flaming like the coals that heated the water; her pain and shame only further sharpened by the list of the aid that she had given to the people of the stronghold. She hadn't done it for the recognition, nor for any need of future accounting.

She turned back, meaning to flee to the small room, remove herself from everything until she could make her way out; find somewhere - anywhere - to shelter and not cause Elwed any more trouble than she was sure she had made for the other woman.

A hand grasped at her skirt as she turned, and off balance, Faddha tripped. She tried to right herself on the nearby table, but her hand came down on a tray that was barely balanced on the table's edge and she, and all of the wooden plates and clay pots fell to sprawl and scatter across the floor. She tried to get up, already reaching to gather the scattered things, but stopped with a short cry as new pain lanced across her scalp and squeezed at the back of her neck.

"Now you know you're no better than the rest of us."

The voice was cold, and held the low kind of warning that told Faddha that this was just the beginning of what she could expect from the other women. The woman that held her very nearly thrust her face into the broken shards of a mug that had shattered on contact with the floor. Having no more strength to fight the despair gathering in her heart, Faddha did what she had promised herself, three long years before, that she would never do.

**The** afternoon was drawing in, but the enemy showed no sign or desire for retreat. As hard as the combined armies of Rivendell and Greenwood pushed, the wild men of the North pushed back, coming at them in two and threes, their attacks crude, but strong, as if some fear drove them forward, made retreat a last and unacceptable option.

So it felt to Elrohir. As tightly controlled as he kept his natural gift during battle, he could not help but feel the cold shiver of dread that near blinded some of the foes that came at him. It was something they could use against them.

Setting his long blade against the hilt of his shorter offhand sword, he pushed forward into the midst of a small knot of wild eyed Northmen, before separating his blades and turning one upward in one direction, the other down in a deadly arc, cleaving two of them, before spinning to bring his attack to bear on others in the small formation. His hands moved in a blur of motion, feet keeping his balance as he tested his theory; tried to push them back. They chose death over retreat, and while he knew the wild men of the North were not the most skilled tacticians in battle, he knew they should have had more sense than that - more skill.

"Reform the lines!" he ordered, calling out in Sindarin to his kin. "Drive them back. Force them back!"

He smiled grimly as he heard his orders repeated by his brother and by Legolas, both instinctively trusting his judgement, or perhaps they, too, had felt or observed the fear that dove the men on. The enemy he faced quite obviously took offense at his smile, and swung the greatsword he carried in a downward arc, but the attack was slow and easily sidestepped, and almost with regret, Elrohir cut the man down granting a merciful and quick death to the frightened puppet of a warrior.

He pulled his sword free even as the fallen man's place was taken another; a second and a third Northman hovering, exchanging glances as if each waited on the other to make a move. Around them and behind, faced with the renewed onslaught from his Elvish kin, the wild men of the North finally broke, and scattered, making for the water, the hills, even the trees - anywhere but back the way they had come, but not these three. These seemed intent upon him, perhaps believing him a simpler target, being but one Elf, alone.

"Time to die," the first of the Northmen snarled as he moved to attack. He swung a small blade wide, but came in tight with a second.

Elrohir blocked with a single sweeping strike that took even the closer of the two attacks out harmlessly beyond the point of danger, answering with blazing repost that drove the Northman back against his two, still indecisive companions.

"Not today," Elrohir said, almost apologetically, as he broke to step back, "Leave now with your brothers-in-arms and you may yet live."

"And you may yet not!"

They came at him, all three at once, hard and fast as if whatever strange indecision had held the other two had abruptly broken and poured a wave of hate over the top of the lingering fear. The strength of it was almost crushing, and it took Elrohir a moment to realise that he had opened his senses, unbidden, beyond reason until the sudden unexpected cry burst within his heart.

An agony of emotional pain, hopelessness and despair blossomed from the echo of deeply physical hurts, but the touch and essence of it, so familiar it was like the mirror of his own soul, knotted everything he was with near terror and panic.

_Elrohir… please-!_

Pain of a different kind shattered the desperate touch of mind to mind.

Too late he tried to block the strike of the Northman's sword that shattered the steel of his spaulder, bit through the leather beneath and sliced the chain in two, tearing the flesh beneath. A second, deeper piercing lance of fire cut through his side. He staggered back, barely maintaining the presence of mind to slash down at the hand that held the knife embedded in his side. Elvish steel cleanly severed the wrist and prevented the man from pulling the blade free as Elrohir fell, first to one knee and then, as he tried to rise on a buckling leg, to his side. He rolled onto his back, but his strength failed even as he crossed his blades to catch the descending arc of a Northman's axe.

He felt the air stir, the whisper and whistle of feathers in flight as the volley of arrows passed the space where he had been but a moment before. The axe never fell, except backward with its wielder as the sharp, surreal edges of the moment faded into the darkening twilight of the death of his Northmen foe, and his own burgeoning pain.

"Lie still, my friend," Legolas' soft, calm voice and the press of a strong hand on his good shoulder kept him from rising. "We will send for a healer."

Elrohir took a huge, ragged gasp that sounded to his own ears like a cry, as if his lungs had not known breath for a thousand years. He tried again to rise, to pluck at the knife in his side as if _it_ pinned him to the ground, not the press of Legolas' hand, nor the warm curl of his brother's fingers that caught his wrist and prevented him from pulling out the blade.

"Silith-" he gasped when he had breath enough to make the sound. "Sillothuiell nín!"

"He is afraid," Elladan said; his soft voice filled with worry.

"And half mad with pain," Legolas said. His tone was mournful and without much hope.

_**They** were both of them right: Legolas and my brother. I _was_ afraid; frightened because the first hint of contact with my soul's light in years, and she had been crying out in anguish and in need; scared that I was not there to give her solace; terrified that after such an appeal, I could not tell where she was - did she even still live? So, yes, both were right, because the agony of those fears, those terrible truths was almost too much to bear._

_ For three years I had search, relying only on the sense of magic I felt from the gems that made up the twinned brooches we each had worn since the day of our marriage. When we bound ourselves, each to the other in the ancient Elvish rite of joining soul to soul, a little piece of each of our life's essence became locked within the magic that gave the jewels their power, though perhaps it would be more accurate to say that such ornaments were merely symbolic of the arcane connection to which we had promised ourselves. Through our marriage we would always hear, always feel, always know one another's needs and thoughts and emotions - even were I not already an Empath. Through our marriage it had even, sometimes, been possible for us to share words mind to mind, though rarely over any great distance and that only added another dimension to the pain of that moment on the battlefield of the Old Ford. Through our marriage it was possible to sustain each other in times of great peril or injury, even to the point of staving off death, but also to hasten it - for each of us knew that should one of us fall, surely the other would soon fade of a broken heart._

_Such we both had willingly promised - such was what we both, then, faced._

**Faddha** was not sure whether it was the hand over her mouth that woke her, or the one that lightly shook her shoulder, but the scent of Hethuc's warband lay heavy around the man that disturbed her rest. It filled her with both fear and nausea in equal measure, and suddenly all the will to fight left her.

"Has he finally tired of my refusal so much that he believes I will soften if he shares me with his warband?" she said, her tone one of defeat as he lifted his hand away from her mouth.

She was supposed to be safe where she was. Elwed had promised her no one would find her there.

"Tell me something," he said in response. "If you hate us so much, why then do you stay? I see no chains, no locks upon your door and the gate is never barred, so… why?"

"I cannot tell you," she answered. "You would not understand."

"Suppose you try," he said.

He released her shoulder then and, still afraid, she half sat up and shuffled away as far as the narrow cot would allow. In the dim light that came in through the high, narrow window, and was little more than starlight and a sliver of silver from a darkening moon, she studied his face. She knew him from the warband, though she did not know his name; one of those that Hethuc trusted though, she knew that much. She remembered seeing him at Hethuc's side on several of the nights on which the war leader had exercised his power over her.

"Yes, lady," the warrior said, "You have healed me, more than once, I think, if that's what you're trying to remember."

She shook her head.

"Lau," she began, and then corrected herself, "No… I don't-"

"You were going to tell me what I wouldn't understand," he interrupted. "_Then_, perhaps, we'll see to what _you_ don't."

She frowned, as did he, and then he moved closer.

"Speak quickly, woman. I'm getting bored with waiting."

"Out there," she nodded her head upwards toward the window, "beyond these walls there is a war being fought. No one saw it coming. All believed that Elessar's peace would hold and it _should_ have. That is why I stay: because there is shadow and fear in the heart of man; because there are women and children suffering and cowering the dark. I stay for all of those who have no voice, who have no hope, who have no chance of peace or ease of their misery."

"Very noble," he said, and he reached for her again, catching the front of her shift before she could move away far enough, "Also very stupid if you think that these people you so altruistically try to protect care, or even _know,_ half of them just what it is you do for them… or if you think that Hethuc hasn't… figured out what you're trying to do."

"It is not Hethuc's hand that-"

"His is the rod that'll break your back, woman," he said, "Listen to _me_ if you won't listen to your own despair. Go home, little-"

"I cannot!" she hissed and a cold rush of panic hit her, as if she had suddenly been plunged into the rushing waters of the falls of Rauros. She practically clawed at his hand, still holding to the collar of her shift. He was immovable and she saw the truth of her earlier fears in the man's dark eyes. She whispered "But I cannot stay here."

"Not and live," he agreed. "I may not know the words you weep when he's done with you, but… I know what happens to your kind if you prove false to your promises, and one way or another he _will_ break you, because he won't have a woman bring him to ruin before the masters he serves."

"And if I am all that stands between those masters and the women, and the children, and the wounded, and those lost in Shadow - what then?" she argued. "I won't abandon them."

"You can't help them by _becoming_ one of them."

"I _told_ you you would not understand," she said, her eyes filling with tears as the words of one, long fallen into Shadow and faded to dust, echoed in the emptiness of her heart and whispered on her outgoing sigh as she ceased her struggles with Hethuc's right hand man. "Ónen i-hîdh adanath; ú-chebin hîdh anim."


End file.
